Red Sky At Night
by Squeak the Mouse
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up a prisoner of Moriarty everything changes. Alone and afraid, he faces an uncertain future in the hands of a psychopath and as more and more people become involved Sherlock quickly becomes aware that this is it- the plan to burn his heart out. Rated T to be safe!


**Chapter 1**:

Sherlock stared at the sky before him, a vivid red glow. Strange; it had been a late afternoon on a dull winter's day. Why was it red?

"_Red sky at night Shepherds delight_

_Red sky at morning Shepherds warning," _a woman's voice whispered soothingly. She sounded familiar; who was she? Sherlock delved into the depths of his mind palace to find out. There was nothing there. Nothing. Just an inky, black void. A void he was falling into...

XXX

The floor smashed into Sherlock's face. This quickly brought him back into the real world. Panting, he tried to steady himself with his arms but they were stuck behind his back. That was odd because he could move his legs. And his vision was clearer. The floor was concrete, cold and unyielding.

An abrupt movement spun him over onto his back so he was staring at the ceiling. Except it wasn't the ceiling. It was a man in a Westwood suit. Grinning.

"Evening Sherlock," he whispered with his slick Irish voice.

"Moriarty," Sherlock croaked.

"Oh you poor dear. What have you done with yourself?" Moriarty continued, leaning down to ruffle his black curls. Sherlock instinctively jerked his head away.

Moriarty slapped him. Sherlock winced.

"I SAID, 'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOURSELF?'" he screamed.

"I don't know."

Moriarty began to giggle, hissing like a snake. This soon turned into a cold laugh which made the blood in Sherlock's veins freeze.

"This is brilliant! The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something!" he cackled.

Sherlock struggled to his knees so he was at least off the floor, although he didn't dare to stand up.

"So Sherlock. The consulting detective kneeling before the consulting criminal. Evil overpowering Good, just like it's supposed to be. Isn't this grand?" Moriarty smirked. He clearly wanted an answer yet Sherlock didn't want to inflate his already oversized ego.

"No," he muttered.

Moriarty swiftly grabbed Sherlock's neck then pushed it down to the floor which forced him to lie on the floor kicking and struggling against the excruciating pain on his neck. He wished his handcuffs would just melt so he could fight back. Fight back and make him pay.

"What was that Sherlock?" Moriarty whispered, gripping his neck tighter. "Don't you think it's grand?"

"It's... grand," Sherlock spluttered. Immediately Moriarty let go. Air flooded back into Sherlock's lungs making him realise how lucky he was to be alive; Moriarty could kill him at any moment.

"Good boy. I must say you put up quite a fight Sherlock; then again you do have your moments. We gave you something for the journey which made you rave about 'Mummy' for most of the way. Do people like you even have mothers?" he asked.

So that was who the voice was, he'd heard his mother's voice for the first time since she died when he was five years old. An image floated into his mind of a little boy with raven black curls and a knack for asking awkward questions being rocked in her arms, looking out of the window at the setting sun. For a moment Sherlock thought he could smell her perfume. Then Moriarty's iron grip on his hair forced him to block it out.

"Do people like you even have mothers?" he hissed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. Anger swept through him like fire, if he could have moved his arms he'd have strangled this bastard and used his head as target practice.

"Strange," Moriarty murmured. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air during which Moriarty simply stared at Sherlock. It was almost like he was holding back a snigger.

The anger made him bold so he eased himself onto his knees again. Controlling this emotion (why did he have emotions all of a sudden?) he looked Moriarty square in the eye and asked "What do you want with me?"

"Oh nothing much, I just need you to behave yourself like a good boy," he paused. "For now."

Sherlock gulped.

"I suggest you make yourself comfy, you'll be here for a while. Don't worry; we'll keep you fed, watered and exercised. We'll even let you have a visitor."

A visitor? No! Not that! Anything but that!

"John!" he blurted out.

"Still sentimental about that pet are we? We really should reunite a pet with their owner..."

Fury like he'd never known it before surged through him, making him tremble with the sheer force of keeping it locked inside. Nobody was going to hurt John, ever. He needed to keep him safe.

"Don't go after John. You've got me now. Just do what you want with me but leave John alone," Sherlock pleaded. He despised himself for grovelling to this madman, yet he had no choice.

Moriarty crouched down to Sherlock's level. "Where's the fun in that though. WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT?" he screamed. He then stormed out of the room, locking the door with a cruel, "Click."

Sherlock shook with the shock of what had just happened and fear of what was to come. Surely this wasn't happening. He'd just gone to meet Lestrade to have a look at a crime scene, just a routine murder, nothing amazing. It was only a short walk away and he'd made it even shorter by taking a little shortcut down an alleyway. He'd taken the same short cut nearly every day when he was walking about London and nothing had happened at all. Worryingly, that alleyway was the last thing he remembered before here. Mycroft probably knew he went there often so it was more than likely that his kidnapping had been caught on camera so he would warn John. John would be fine. He had to be.

Sherlock slumped back against the rough wall, his heart pounding like a drum. He'd never felt so afraid.

He'd never felt so alone.


End file.
